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I wrote that about the sea."
She said the last sentence with a sort of childish defiance.
"Wait," said Artois. "Now I begin to understand."
"What?"
"All those hours spent in your room. Your mother thought you were
reading."
"No," she said, still rather defiantly; "I've been writing that, and
other things--about the sea."
"How? In prose?"
"No. That's the worst of it, I suppose."
And again the faint wave of color went over her face to her neck.
"Do you really feel so criminal? Then what ought I to feel?"
"You? Now that is really cruel!" she cried, getting up quickly, almost
as if she meant to hurry away.
But she only stood there in front of him, near the window.
"Never mind!" she said. "Only you remember that Madre tried. She had
never said much about it to me. But now and then from just a word I
know that she feels bad, that she wishes very much she could do
something. Only the other day she said to me, 'We have the instinct,
men the vocabulary.' She was meaning that you had.


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